


Perfect Shade of Grey

by nagi_schwarz



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Weiss Kreuz, Weiss Side B - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This year for Valentine's, Harry's thought up a <i>good</i> plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Shade of Grey

**Author's Note:**

> It's not beta'd. Forgive me for typos, for I've spent all day in front of my laptop writing a legal memo, and this came after. Also crossover with WK, Aya/Ken from Side B, Crawford from Kapital.

Mouths on mouths. Tongues sliding over teeth. Nip, suck, nibble. Warm, callused fingers drifted across Harry's ribs beneath his t-shirt. He arched into the caress and reciprocated the gesture, sliding his hands beneath Ken's t-shirt and tracing the silken ripple of muscle under flesh.

"Nnnh." Ken lowered his head to worry at the spot behind Harry's jaw, and Harry's hips rolled in response. He tightened his grip on Ken's waist, and his fingers brushed a thick scar, several scars, four parallel lines - as if Ken had been clawed by a wild beast.

Ken went still.

Harry drew his hands away slowly, cautiously.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice still rough with lust.

Ken nodded, chest heaving for breath. He swiped a hand over his face, and the motion was arrhythmic, angry.

" _Iie_. Not your fault I --" He cut himself off before he said something he shouldn't, something about the shadows in his blue-green eyes. Harry sometimes cut off his own words for the same reason - he could not judge.

Ken glanced at his watch - a hideous yellow diver's watch he never took off - and sighed.

"I should go help Yuki open the shop. Day before Valentine's day is always a crazy one." He attempted a smile then, that broken expression people offered when their tears and screaming were gone. "Don't you have class anyway?"

"Yeah. Lab." Harry straightened his clothes absently. His hair he left for a lost cause; no one would notice the difference anyway.

Both men jumped at the sound of the hothouse door being flung open.

"Ken, you're always late. Come on!"

Ken, who had dropped into a defensive crouch, straightened up. " _Gomen ne_ , Aya-kun. I'll be right there."

Harry relaxed his grip on his wand beneath his jacket. It was just Aya, the stern red-headed florist who was Japanese like Ken. Harry wasn't sure Japanese people could rightly have the coloring Ken and Aya did - Ken with his blue-green eyes and dark brown hair - but both men were stunningly attractive. Harry might have wondered why a man as sweet and handsome as Ken would be interested in Harry, who looked like an overgrown Dickensian waif, if he didn't know that Ken loved Aya fiercely and Aya was incontrovertibly straight.

Ken scratched his head, bashful. " _Ano_ , I should go..."

Harry nodded. " _Wakatta_."

Ken smiled - really smiled - whenever Harry spoke Japanese. Harry reached out and dragged Ken in for one more kiss before he left for class. He opened his eyes as he pulled back and gazed into Ken's eyes full of shadows and was glad, for once, when his mind didn't overlay the image with a pair of grey eyes darkened from lust instead of secrets.

"I'll call later," Harry said. Once Ken was safely out of sight and in the shop, Harry could apparate back to his flat for his books before he went on to school.

Tomorrow was the day, Valentine's Day.

Seven years since Harry had first been in love.

In love.

The words "I love you" always echoed in his mind in that voice, the one that haunted his dreams and bittersweet memories.

Major statistics, as the first and most boring class of the day, gave Harry plenty of time to remember.

* * *

Slate-grey eyes unmarred by the sickly green light of the killing curse. Soft laughter and equally soft footsteps ringing off the flagstone of the castle corridor. An exchange of secret smiles and a tangle of limbs half-hidden by a disillusionment charm botched mid-kiss. Strawberries and Devonshire cream brought to his lips by long, graceful, snitch-catching hands. It tasted good and tasted even better on his lover's lips.

* * *

Harry thought he ought to have some sort of vaguely romantic plan for himself and Ken to celebrate the over-commercialized and candy-coated holiday. Ken loved football. On his days off he loitered at the nearby park with a football and solicited a game from anyone who would have him. After a long and probably harrowing day at the shop, however, Ken probably wouldn't have enough energy to pay. It wasn't as if Harry had any muggle friends from uni who would fill out a team anyway.

He wondered, as he headed back to his flat to study, if there would be any way to score tickets to the Arsenal-AC Milan game going on tomorrow night. That game would create a wave of disappointed girlfriends and wives across the continent.

Harry drifted around the corner toward his building and sighed at the graffiti that covered the old red brick. So the riotous Tory students had been by again. They'd pasted a series of defaced posters of the prime minister on every available surface. Poor prime minister. Of course, no one looked good with a Hitler moustache or devil horns. Harry fished in his jacket pocket for his keys and unlocked the lobby door. It was a pointless effort - the lock was broken again. He glanced back at the poster of the prime minister, and a good idea struck him suddenly. The PM was absurdly grateful to Kingsley Shacklebolt after the horror of the war. Maybe, just once, Harry shouldn't be afraid of trading on his connections.

He dashed all the way up the stairs to his flat and unwarded the floo. A quick fire call later and he had reserved two tickets, front and center, for the Euro Cup final at Wembley Stadium. Harry rummaged through the phone book, absurdly pleased with himself, and found the number for an up-scale Japanese restaurant. Ken often mentioned that he despaired of his housemates' choice of cuisine (Chloë was French, Free was from the Netherlands) and Harry knew Ken had a hard time finding ingredients for Japanese food. Once the reservation was made, Harry set to his homework, feeling rather like a cat who'd had the canary. All those years of watching Ron fail at wooing Hermione and listening to Hermione complain had finally paid off. He'd firecall Hermione and tell her if it didn't mean getting into a row with Ron over Ginny.

Once all his homework was done, Harry skimmed over his completed assignments for tomorrow's classes. If she saw it, Hermione would be surprised at how efficient a student Harry had become. She'd be less pleased if she knew Harry worked so hard so he could drive himself into an exhausted, dreamless sleep every night.

He spotted a note for his abnormal psych class reminding him that he had to log six hours of observation at a local psychiatric hospital. The deadline was the day after tomorrow. It wouldn't do for him to leave it to the last minute, but tomorrow was Valentine's day, and he and Ken had some mutual forgetting to do. Harry closed his eyes.

Grey eyes gazed back at him from his memory.

Harry opened his eyes.

Yes, tomorrow would be a good day for forgetting.

Harry closed his abnormal psych textbook and scooped up his mobile. He dialed and waited for one, two, three rings before someone picked up.

"Kitten in the House flower shop! Can we help you with your Valentine's plans today?"

Perky Michel. Of course.

Harry offered up a cheerful tone. "Why, yes you can. Is Ken there?"

"Harry-kun? _Ohayo!_ " Michel chirped. " _Chotto matte kudasai._ "

Harry was glad he'd paid attention to Ken's fumbling Japanese lessons and waited patiently.

"Hey Harry." Ken sounded a touch breathless.

"Shop busy, then?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Will it be less crowded tomorrow?"

"Not really. Last-minute buyers and customers picking up orders. Yuki's sulky, so he's in back with Aya de-thorning the roses." Ken sighed softly; he was frazzled. "You coming by tonight?"

It was a catch twenty-two, hanging out in the evenings. Ken couldn't spend too much time at Harry's place or he'd notice something wasn't muggle - like moving photos or people appearing in the fireplace. Harry couldn't spend too much time at Ken's place because Ken's housemates - his coworkers from the flower shop - never gave them peace.

" _Sumimasen_ ," Harry said softly. "I've some tough homework." And he did - curse-breaking with Bill Weasley. "But you should clear your calendar for tomorrow evening."

"Really? What for?"

"It's a surprise," Harry said. "I'll meet you at a quarter past six. Have your bike ready."

"All right. I will. Don't study too hard."

"Thanks, Ken. Don't work too hard."

Ken laughed and said, deadpan, "Never do."

"Bye."

"Bai bai."

Harry hung up. He stared down at his mobile for a moment, pondering his easy relationship with Ken. They weren't in love with each other, not by any stretch of the imagination. But it was so easy to be comfortable around each other; Michel was convinced they were the perfect couple. Harry would have felt worse about the entire farce if he hadn't known Ken was of the same mindset. Whatever secrets Ken kept, they were none of Harry's business. When they were together, they could forget.

Just forget.

Harry set his mobile on the coffee table and went to grab a robe from his closet. He shrugged it on over his jeans and t-shirt, fetched his wand from his jacket pocket, and stepped over to the fireplace.

* * *

Curse-breaking with Bill was an exercise in awkwardness. Harry had only manage to escape into the muggle world without Hermione trailing after him by assuring her he'd train for suitable wizarding employment while attending uni.

At first, hanging out with Bill two evenings a week was a grand idea. Harry had grown up admiring Bill's dragon-fang earring and pony-tail coolness and learned to respect the skilled, honorable Order member Bill had become. At the beginning of Harry's semi-muggle existence, curse-breaking with Bill was perfect. That cautiously-held perfection ended with Harry and Ginny's break-up and her subsequent retreat to Anthony Goldstein.

"Good work this week, Harry," Bill said. The genuine compliment was without warmth.

"Thanks." Harry wiped his sleeve across his face to get rid of some of the ashes from a flame-throwing curse that had almost caught him by surprise.

"See you Tuesday. Keep studying." Bill flicked his wand in salute and headed for his office.

"Say hello to Fleur and Victoire for me," Harry called over him, but couldn't tell if the other man heard. He tried to shake out some of the tension in his shoulders and turned to find the floo out. He was just reaching for the floo powder when green flames flared in the grate and Kingsley Shacklebolt, a dashing figure in his auror robes, stepped out.

"The Minister insisted I deliver these in person and pass along the nation's gratitude to the Vanquisher of Voldemort." His tone was slightly dry.

Harry cringed at the alliterative title but accepted the envelope. "Thank you. And tell him it was, er..." It wasn't a pleasure, dying and staring at the shriveled remains of Voldemort excised from his soul. It wasn't an honor, either, watching Cedric and Sirius die. "Just doing my duty as an Englishman."

Kingsley nodded. "Of course. Taking young Ronald to a game, then?"

"Ron? Oh - no. Valentine's plans, actually." Harry blushed as soon as he said it, but Kingsley nodded knowingly.

"A muggle girl; of course. The Minister also told me to mention he would be willing to oblige any future such requests as he is, personally, a fan of Manchester United."

Harry wasn't sure why the PM would want him to know which team he liked, but he nodded. "Tell him thanks."

Kingsley inclined his head politely. "I'll be on my way, then." He scooped up a handful of floo powder and vanished in a burst of green flame. Harry waited a few beats, then spun away in his own burst of green.

Instead of going straight home, he emerged at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom was waiting with Harry's post-cursebreaking bottle of butterbeer. Harry tossed down a few sickles too many, lifted the bottle in a salute to Tom, and was in muggle London before anyone had a chance to pounce on him and hero-worship.

After a few odd looks from passing muggles, Harry remembered to shrug off his robes. He meandered down the pavement, dodging the evening crowd and sipping his drink.

He wound up at the park where Ken played football with some of the local lads. He skirted the edges of the pitch and finally sank down on one of the benches. A pair of men in long coats, hats tipped to shade their faces, stood talking and feeding the ducks.

Tomorrow.

Valentine's Day.

Harry had proper romantic plans now.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

"Happy St. Valentine's Day," Cedric whispered.

Harry titled his head up for a kiss, and Cedric obliged him. Thoroughly.

When they had to come up for air, Harry smiled against Cedric's mouth and said, "Happy candy hearts and Cupid day to you too."

The dry tone caused Cedric to laugh softly. "So unromantic. You're a Gryffindor - aren't you supposed to charge in, wand blazing, ready with the furry shackles and massage oil?"

"F--" Harry choked. "Furry shackles?" He turned bright red and cast Cedric an anxious look.

On the other side of the picnic basket - thoughtfully provided by house elves - Cedric's mirth faded. He noticed the worry in Harry's eyes and scooted closer to pull him into a brief, comforting hug.

"I'm sorry, I'm not - I'm not asking for that."

Harry nodded against Cedric's shoulder, even more anxious and feeling stupid for it.

Cedric sighed. "I was just joking, I wasn't thinking." He pulled back and ducked his head so he was eye-level with Harry. "You know we wouldn't do anything like that until you were ready, right?"

Harry nodded, avoiding Cedric's gaze.

Cedric placed cool fingers under Harry's chin and tilted his head up. "Right?"

"Right."

Cedric's solemn expression dissolved into a smile. "Good. You want to try some of the lemon crumble? Dobby made it just for you..."

At the end of the night, Cedric walked Harry back to Gryffindor tower. They exchanged good night kisses under properly-cast disillusionment charms - even Cedric knew the Fat Lady was a gossip - and procrastinated their goodbyes.

"See you tomorrow," Cedric said finally.

Harry tugged him down for one last kiss. "Tomorrow."

"Happy Valentine's Day." Cedric pressed a chaste kiss to Harry's forehead, right next to the famous scar. "Love you."

Harry, who'd leaned into the touch, went still.

Cedric smile against Harry's skin and said, "It's all right. Not until you're ready." And he slipped out of Harry's embrace and walked away.

* * *

"If I were you, I'd give a ticket to Ron. The red-head."

Harry's eyes flew open at the unfamiliar, distinctly American voice. His hand went for his wand.

A tall man in a pristine white suit stood beside the bench, one hand in his pocket, staring at the sunset.

"Pardon me, but do I know you?" Years of exposure to Hermione had had made him polite even in the face of danger.

"I'll tell you now that I am no part-time fraud like Trelawney." The man ran a hand through his black hair, then turned do look down at Harry. "Give the ticket to Ron. Do your schoolwork instead."

Something about the man's yellow-brown eyes, unreadable behind glasses, reminded Harry of Lucius and Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange in one. A hex sprung to his lips and then the man said,

"What's in it for you if you do as I say? Only the perfect shade of grey."

Harry didn't take his eyes off the stranger, uncaring of his bizarre words.

"Sir, if I have to hurt you --"

And the man walked away.

Only the perfect shade of grey. Harry wanted to laugh. There was no such thing as the perfect shade of grey. It had long ago been subsumed in the perfect shade of killing green.

Harry flicked his glance in the direction the man had gone. He'd known who Harry was; no one in his muggle existence knew of Trelawney. More importantly, the man knew _what_ Harry was. Harry reached for his wand, a tracking spell on the tip of his tongue. The man had been dressed as a muggle - impeccably, so he was either muggle-born or a ministry hit wizard. Or maybe even an Unspeakable. He also knew about the football tickets. The only wizard who knew about them was Kingsley. Harry kept his grip on his wand, casting a hunted look a the deepening shadows in the park. Was it another prophecy? The man had said he was "no fraud" like Trelawney, which meant he could do what she did, only better. Harry swiped a hand over his face, tired and frustrated. What could the man have possibly meant? Ron didn't like muggle football at all - he wouldn't enjoy the game. He wouldn't fail to woo Hermione properly this year either; he had already used his "failure to woo" card the year before and learned his lesson for it. Sending Ron to the game with Ken wasn't even an option.

Harry rose up and walked slowly back to his flat, wondering what he ought to have for supper. He refused to get take-out again if he didn't have to. He did know how to cook. But he didn't feel like it.

 

* * *

Another sleepless night. Harry sat on the window seat in the den overlooking the courtyard and sipping now-cold orange tea. A glance at the clock on the wall - it read "time to be unconscious" - told Harry that it was technically Valentine's Day already.

He didn't dare close his eyes.

A knock at the window sent him toppling off the window seat. The mug shattered right beside his head and splashed him with tepid stickiness. He cast a quick _reparo_ and banished the mug to the kitchen sink. He rolled up on his knees, ready with a stinging hex, and peered at his opponent.

The half-moon glow cast the figure hulking on the windowsill in menacing shadows - powerful shoulders, coiled tension of a predator waiting to spring.

And then the figure said, "Harry, it's cold. Let me in?"

Harry's grip on his wand went slack. Ken.

He scrambled to open the window, and Ken slid smoothly over the windowsill and onto his feet.

"Are you all right? What are you doing here?" Harry reached out to turn on the light, but Ken caught his wrist.

"Don't. You shouldn't see, I --"

And suddenly Harry was assaulted by the overwhelming scent of blood and something else, foreign and unsettling.

"Are you hurt?" Harry asked. He stepped closer to Ken,

Ken shook his head. "Not really."

"You're bleeding."

The moonlight fells across half of Ken's face. He closed his eyes and gave a shuddering sigh.

"It's not mine. I just --" His eyes opened, and Harry saw raw pain instead of its mere shadows.

"Of course." Those Hermione-earned manners kicked in. "Sit. I'll fetch you some warm water and a flannel."

Ken nodded and sank down on the window seat. Harry lit some candles and set them on the kitchen table. He fetched a flannel from the bathroom, filled a bowl with water he spelled warm, and returned to the den. Ken had shed his jacket and shirt, and they lay in a heap on the floor.

"Do you need help?" Harry set the bowl and flannel on a milk crate and stepped back to give Ken some space.

Staring out the window, Ken was a picture of beauty and horror. He was incredibly fit, and Harry was as visually-minded as the next man, but that powerful, muscular body was...marred. Angry bruises spanned Ken's ribs all down one side, and the mottling around his upper arm suggested he'd been forcefully restrained. More horrifying was the stark white relief of scars tinted in a faint sheen of blood. A jagged knot that must have cost Ken a kidney. Four parallel scars on his abdomen too straight to have been made by animal claws. Angry, twisted flesh from an old burn on his lower back. What might have been a bullet wound in one shoulder; Harry had only ever seen those on the telly. He knew where all the scars were, was careful not to touch them when they kissed, but he had never seen them.

Ken started, as if just remembering Harry's presence.

"No. Thank you. I -- you shouldn't have to see this. You're not allowed to see this at all." Ken scooped up the flannel, dipped it in the water, and wiped the blood off his torso with broad, even strokes.

He'd done this before.

It was horrible.

What was worse was the black eye and cut lip Ken had kept turned away from Harry up till then.

"I can keep a secret," he said.

"I know you can." Ken rinsed the cloth and continued cleaning himself.

"I can see why you wouldn't want to go back to the flower shop." Harry hovered beside the kitchen table and felt useless.

Ken laughed, his voice like broken glass. "Not tonight."

"You can have my bed," Harry said. "The sofa is fine for me." He and Ken hadn't made it to the point of being comfortable sharing a bed.

"No need to trouble yourself," Ken began, but Harry shook his head.

"You're injured."

Ken nodded his defeat and continued cleaning his skin. He twisted to reach his own back and hissed in pain.

"Oh joy - broken rib."

He'd had them often enough he could tell instantly.

Harry swooped in and took the bloodstained cloth from Ken's limp grasp.

"Let me."

Ken opened his mouth to protest, but Harry hushed him gently.

"You're hurt badly," Harry said.

Ken turned the injured side of his face away and said nothing.

"I know - I should see the other guy. You want ice for your eye?" Harry kept his tone carefully light.

"No, thank you." Ken's voice trembled slightly.

Harry finished cleaning Ken's back and set the flannel aside. "Come on - you should sleep." He rose to his feet and extended a hand. "I have a feather mattress - it works like a charm." He smiled weakly at the unintentional pun.

Ken caught Harry's wrist again, but this time the touch wasn't desperate. "Thank you."

"You can thank me by coming to bed."

Ken's eyebrows went up; his eyes held a trace of his usual mischief.

Harry blushed and was glad of the dim light. "Freudian slip. Come on."

"Not yet," Ken said, and brushed his lips over the fluttering pulse of Harry's wrist.

Harry's breath hitched in his chest. "Ken, you're injured --"

"I can take a little pain." Ken's voice was low and husky, and he placed another delicate kiss further up Harry's wrist, right over where Harry's pulse was becoming erratic.

"I don't want to hurt you," Harry said, and was pleased at how steady his voice was.

Ken smiled against Harry's skin. "You're not the one who hurts me."

"I don't want to become him. Close your eyes."

Ken lifted his head and searched Harry's gaze. Harry wondered what Ken saw there, that he nodded and obeyed. Harry scooped up his wand, careful to keep his movements slow and unthreatening - he knew Ken could sense him blind - and cast some gentle healing charms. They were safe to use on muggles because they dulled the pain instantly but let the visible effects linger naturally. Ken's face, however, Harry healed fully. Then he set his wand aside, out of sight.

Ken opened his eyes and lifted a hand to his healed eye.

"Harry sat back and waited for the aurors to apparate in. Nothing happened. Of course, Harry's wards were innovative wth a flair of George Weasley.

Ken had gone very still. It was a curious skill of his, the way he could hold completely still such that if he were hidden in shadows he would be completely invisible.

"Tell me you're not from that school."

Harry held himself very calmly. "Which school?" Ken couldn't mean Hogwarts.

"Rosenkreuz." The word rang with soul-deep hatred.

"I'm not," Harry said, infusing it with as much sincerity as he could, "from that school."

"Thank you." Whether it was for the healing or the affirmation, Harry didn't know, but after Ken leaned in and kissed him, Harry didn't care.

Ken slid his hands into Harry's hair and cradled him close.

"I'll give you anything you want tonight. Do you want to take it?"

Harry moaned as heat spiked in his blood; Ken swallowed the sound in a slow, thorough, open-mouthed kiss.

"So...you want it?" Ken's hands slid lower. "Obviously you're --" his fingers tugged - "up for it."

If Harry hadn't been utterly robbed of speech, he would have scolded Ken for such a terrible pun. Harry leaned in and sucked on that spot behind Ken's jaw in retaliation.

"Anything," Harry managed now that Ken was sufficiently distracted, "is not everything. And what I want - I believe there's a French term for - for it --"

Ken groaned. "I don't speak French."

Harry grinned wickedly. "Surely," he said, relishing in his own coherency relative to Ken's sensation overload, "in your collection of international housemates one of them cared to mention the singular practice of the _soixante-neuf_."

Ken growled and tackled Harry onto his back on the cushioned seat. "Clearly I'm not doing my job right if you can talk like that."

Harry rolled his hips upward suggestively. "Maybe you'd better get on it, then." He grinned and then let Ken steal the last of his double entendres in a kiss.

* * *

Harry awoke alone in his own bed. He would have been annoyed but not hurt - never hurt - if he hadn't spotted the note on the other pillow beside a single blue gentian.

_Happy Valentine's Day! I'm excited for tonight.  
Thanks for last night.  
\-- Hidaka Ken_

Harry was a sentimental fool. He slid the note into his favorite book - a worn copy of the Neverending Story - and set the gentian in an empty milk bottle full of water for a vase before he readied himself for the day.

As he stood in the shower and smoothed soap over the mouth-shaped bruises on his torso he closed his eyes and imagined a soft pink mouth on his, delicate long-fingered hands tracing the line of his ribs, storm-grey eyes smiling at him. Harry bit his lip and opened his eyes.

No. Not him. Not today.

Harry dressed, ate a few slices of toast, and managed to chug down some orange tea before he had to be out the door. He walked to school most days; he liked to keep up the exercise.

Harry paused at the lobby door to fix his Gryffindor scarf - which clashed horribly with his Weasley-made hat - before he stepped out into the cold. The door swung open, and with it came a blast of cold air. Harry cursed and fumbled for his wand with mitten-clumsy hands, desperate for a warming charm, and walked straight into someone's chest.

"Sorry!" He leapt back a step and lifted his head.

Aya loomed over him.

Harry didn't think it was fair, that a Japanese man was so bloody tall. He might have pursued that train of thought if said man's eyes weren't fury-dark and silently speaking all manner of hexes.

"Oh, hello! Happy Valentine's Day." Best to try for Hermione-style diplomacy in such a situation.

Aya's brows snapped together, and the ice-and-stone quality of his glare intensified. Cold fury - just what Harry needed.

"I'll bet you're glad to get away from the shop," he continued brightly.

It must have been an unknown florist skill, the ability to resemble a statute and yet radiate such virulent emotion.

"Well, I have to get to class now." Harry offered his best nice boy-next-door smile he'd perfected for press releases. "Hope you don't mind my borrowing Ken for this evening. He said he'd switched shifts with Free, so --"

"What the hell did you do to Ken?" The words cracked in the air like a whip.

Harry eased a hand toward his wand. "If you're talking about the bruised ribs and such, he was like that when he showed up." Harry kept his voice calm. "I helped him clean up was all."

Deeper fury blossomed in the oddly-colored eyes. "What did you do to his face?"

"I didn't hit him."

Aya lunged and caught Harry by the collar and dragged him in so their faces were mere centimetres apart.

"You did something to him, didn't you? When he ran off, he had a black eye. What did you do, you Rosenkreuz --"

Half-formed suspicions from the night before coalesced into realization. Harry jerked free.

"You're the one who hit him." Ugly hatred began to roil in Harry's chest, a burning vitriol he hadn't felt since his early days as Snape's pupil. Harry got up in Aya's face this time, green eyes blazing. "Did you enjoy it, you sick bastard? Tying him down and breaking his ribs?"

Violet eyes went wide in alarm. "...Tie him down? Break his ribs? I -- no!"

Harry shook his head and turned away, disgusted. "So he was hurt and then you hurt him more. Grand job." He began walking quickly, motions jerky with anger. He was late now - he'd have to find an empty alley and apparate.

A hand came down on his shoulder.

For a florist, Aya was bloody strong.

"Do you love him, or is it a game you Rosenkreuz play? Is it funny, making him love you, watching him be broken each day because you don't love him back?" Aya spun Harry around so they were face-to-face once more. "I've seen you with him. You don't love him - you use him --"

"Sweet Merlin!" Harry knocked Aya's hand aside. "If you weren't such a bloody-minded bastard maybe I'd understand why he loves _you_."

Aya looked stricken. "Ken loves --"

"Of course he loves you! Why else does he look miserable every day? Ken doesn't love me - I'm safe. With me he can forget." Harry reached up and tugged on a lock of black hair. "I'm the opposite of you. He doesn't love me, and I don't love him. We're together for a mutuality of forgetting, him because the man he loves is cruel or blind or both, me because the man I love is dead."

Harry stopped short.

He'd never said it aloud before.

Something in his chest fractured, and suddenly it hurt to breathe.

Aya blinked, surprised by the sudden vehemence of emotion. The tables had been turned. He opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

"How? I killed him."

And he walked away.

* * *

Harry drifted into his first morning lecture, oblivious to the cheerful greetings of his classmates.

"Did you hear me?" A girl peered at him anxiously. "I said 'happy Valentine's Day'."

Harry repeated the sentiment weakly and stared at the whiteboard. Whatever day it was it certainly wasn't happy. Harry groaned and suddenly face-palmed. Had he really just said all that to Aya? Now Aya was going to march back to the shop and confront Ken, and Ken would be furious at Harry for telling, and all his plans would be shot to hell. The one time he'd had _good_ plans too.

Maybe he should give the football tickets to Ron and Arthur. Arthur would enjoy the game; Ken would never know what he'd missed.

The professor called the class to order, and Harry forced himself to pay attention.

At the end of Harry's second morning lecture, he still didn't know what to do.

"Remember, today and tomorrow are the last days to get your practical observation hours." The professor cast Harry a pointed look as he packed up his gear. "Speak to me before three so I can inform the facility of your presence."

Harry slipped out into the hallway. He fished a business card from the flower shop out of his wallet. Ken had scrawled his mobile number on it after their third conversation. It was commonly understood between them that Harry should only call Ken's mobile if it was urgent; Ken could always be reached on the shop line.

Someone ran into Harry's chest and sent his books flying.

"I'm so sorry!" Merlin's beard; he was utterly pathetic today.

" _Daijoubu_ \- I'm all right!" a bright girl's voice informed him.

Harry straightened his glasses and found himself looking at a pair of Japanese girls who might have been identical twins but for one's shorter hair. What was it about Japan that its citizens kept showing up in England?

The short-haired girl knelt and collected Harry's books.

"We're sorry," she said, and handed them to him.

"It's not your fault - I wasn't looking where I was going." Harry smiled weakly and shoved his books into his bag. He paused. "Er, you didn't see a business card, did you? One for a flower shop...?"

The long-haired girl was looking at it, wearing an expression akin to one Hermione would wear if she was suddenly confronted by Rowena Ravenclaw at the school library.

"Kitten in the House flower shop." She turned to her friend. "Sakura-chan! We found it!" Then she turned big eyes up at Harry. "You know this shop, yes Mister?"

Harry nodded warily. The girls looked young - maybe they were friends of Yuki? "Yes. I have a friend who works there." Who he desperately needed to call. He resisted the urge to snatch the card back.

The short-haired girl's eyes lit up. "Do you know him then?"

Harry blinked at her. There were six variations of "him" at the flower shop.

The long-haired girl's eyes lit up. "Un - do you know Ran-niichan?"

It sounded as if she were saying "Ron," only with a slightly different pronunciation. "Niichan" meant elder brother, didn't it?

At Harry's confused expression, the short-haired girl said, "He's tall, and he scowls a lot." She made a fierce face, and the other girl giggled behind her hand.

Harry remained confused.

"Maybe he goes by Aya? He has red hair."

Red hair. Named Ran.

Golden-brown eyes, smirking behind glasses, flashed in Harry's memory. Impossible.

"Yes, I know him." Harry shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. "I can give you directions to the shop."

Both girls beamed at him.

"Come on, then. I'll draw you a map."

Harry led them to a table in the commons, then tore a piece of paper out of his notebook. He drew a map, complete with arrows, street names, and crude sketches of landmarks. The girls thanked him profusely and made to leave, but Harry stopped them. Perhaps some things were inevitable.

Images of the football game and restaurant flashed in his mind before he pushed them aside. It had been a good plan while it lasted.

"I need you to take something to Ran for me."

Both girls beamed. "Of course!"

Harry wrote a quick note detailing the football game and restaurant reservations and slid it into the envelope that contained the tickets.

"Give this to Ran and only Ran."

Both girls bobbed their heads in the affirmative, accepted the envelope, and scurried away. Harry watched them go, clutching his plans in their delicate little hands, and resigned himself to his fate.

Then he picked himself up and went to eat lunch.

 

It took several repetitions of the most popular bars of the 1812 Overture and glares from the people at the surrounding tables before Harry realized it was his mobile that was ringing.

The only people who called were Ken and Hermione. Ken never called while Harry was at school.

He answered before the thing could ring again and net him more glares.

"Hello?"

"What are you doing? Why did you send me this? Why did you send my sister here?" Icy, irate Aya. Ran.

Harry sighed. He'd already dealt with this once today. Did a man not get a break from the gods?

"I didn't know she was your sister. She - they just waned directions to the shop." He felt a headache coming on. Maybe he'd skip Medieval Eastern Europe, down a vial of Draught of the Living Death, and waste the rest of the day. "As for the other - bloody hell, you _are_ dense. Ken loves you, Ken will love the date, and you should take him on it."

"A-aa."

Not the most coherent response. Since he wasn't exactly protesting, it meant he probably wasn't so incontrovertibly straight after all, and that maybe he felt something for Ken too.

"It won't be difficult," Harry said. "Show up in my place, sweep him off his feet, and have a lovely evening."

"I --" Again with the incoherence while Aya processed this turn of events. "Do - do you need to speak to Ken?"

" _No_ \- you have to _surprise_ him." Harry wondered if this was how Hermione felt whenever Ron was being as dense as the Forbidden Forest. Maybe it was a redhead thing.

"Aa." More confident this time. " _Ano, ariga_ \--"

Harry disconnected. He didn't want Aya to thank him. Rather, he thought one of Trelawney's crystal balls ought to summon itself and bludgeon him upside the head. Surely there was some rule about helping one's rival woo one's Valentine's Day date.

He wasn't hungry anymore.

 

After Medieval Eastern Europe Harry trudged back to the psych building and knocked on his professor's office door.

"Come in," Professor Wright said.

Harry opened the door and poked his head in. "It's Harry Potter, Professor." Usually he enjoyed moments when he was anonymous.

"Mr. Potter." Professor Wright folded her hands on the desk and regarded him coolly. "You do have a habit of cutting things close to the wire, don't you?"

He was too fed up to take the criticism to heart. "I've come to sign up for observation hours."

Professor Wright gestured to the seat opposite. "Do sit down."

Harry perched tentatively on the overstuffed cushion.

An uncomfortable silence ensued while Harry and his professor stared at each other, he expectant and she evaluating. Harry had survived Severus Snape's vitriol - nothing she said could possibly bother him.

"Do you tell lies?"

Harry blinked. "Pardon?" He readied his innocent and blank expression, the one he'd used on Dumbledore before he'd learned of the man's legilimency.

"The scars on your hand."

Harry automatically tugged his sleeve down to cover it. But he met her gaze and said, "Every day." It wasn't literally true - he didn't tell a lie every single day, but his muggle existence was really one big lie.

"Does it bother you when others lie to you?"

"Does this have to do with my observation hours?"

The intense, searching expression slid off of Professor Wright's face, and she laughed. "Forgive me, Mr. Potter - old habits die hard."

Harry knew that. Voldemort was four years dead and Harry still slept with his wand in his hand.

"Today at half past four you'll accompany me to Oasis House to carry out your observation." Suddenly Professor Wright as all business. She rifled through a stack of folders. "Do you feel like schizophrenia, delusions, or a manic-depressive?"

Harry was somewhat taken aback at his professor's callous discussion of others' suffering, but he was as human as the next man and wanted an interesting case. "What sorts of delusions?"

Professor Wright flipped open the folder. "John Doe, caucasian male, age twenty-five, suffers from the delusion that - you'll like this - he's a wizard spy exiled from his government in the aftermath of an epic battle between good and evil." She grinned. "You'll be in for an entertaining six hours."

At the word "wizard," Harry went from interested to alarmed. "A wizard, eh? Not like the usual blokes who think they're Elvis Presley." It sounded as if the man was a real wizard. Spy could be anything - hit wizard, auror, maybe even Unspeakable.

"Indeed. He's very polite and intelligent and he seems rational, but for the elaborate fantasy world his mind has created." Professor Wright smiled and closed the file. "Bring something to take notes. John is safe to use a laptop and camera around, if you so choose."

Harry nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

"I'm surprised you're doing this tonight."

Harry shrugged and rose to his feet. "I try not to cut things _too_ close to the wire."

"I reckoned you'd be like the rest, gallivanting about on a mad Valentine's quest." Professor Wright smiled again.

Valentine's day. Did he have to be reminded at every turn? Harry resisted the urge to sigh. If he worked hard today he could forget, and maybe after he went home he could indulge in a rare assignation with the bottom of a bottle.

"I'm afraid my love life is rather dead, Professor."

Indeed it was. The first person he'd ever loved was murdered right before his eyes, and the first chance he'd had at a proper Valentine oblivion had been thwarted by true love.

"Such a shame. You seem a nice fellow." Professor Wright laughed and showed him to the door.

Bellatrix Lestrange's face flashed in his mind, followed by a mingled chorus of her laughter and his voice shaping a _crucio_.

"If you think so."

 

Back at his flat, Harry penned a quick note to Hermione. She worked at the Department of Control of Magical Creatures (she was lobbying to get "control" changed to "regulation") but had strong pull with the Muggle Liaison Office. They would want to know about a wizard stranded at a muggle psychiatric facility.

Harry decided to bring a notebook, some pens, and the lecture recorder he'd purchased to save him in pre-Socratic philosophy. If John Doe was merely crazy, Harry would have to go through with his observation, which meant recording all of the patient's symptoms and analyzing how they fit his diagnosis.

As he stood waiting for Zephyr to return with his letter, he stared at the cupboard where his firewhiskey was waiting.

_Not until you're ready._

_I'm ready, and you're gone._

Zephyr arrived with a brief reply that instructed Harry to proceed to the facility as normal and wait for Hermione and someone from the Muggle Liaison Office to arrive to sort out whether or not the patient was a wizard and secure his release. Harry chucked Zephyr an owl treat, pocketed the note, and disapparated.

"Good afternoon. Professor Wright informed us of your observation assignment." A nurse in pink scrubs - probably for the special day - led Harry down a sterile white corridor and past a series of hospital-like rooms to another series of rooms that looked more comfortable - and much more permanent. Harry remembered a vacant-eyed woman handing a gum wrapper to a boy, and his hands curled into fists.

At the end of the corridor was another corner and a row of offices. For being a rather short girl, the nurse certainly walked quickly. Harry had to trot to keep up.

"Dr. Wright is speaking to him now. You can wait here and observe until she calls you." The nurse pushed open a door and led Harry into a cinderblock observation room, the sort one saw on The Beat or other crimestopper shows on the telly. It had a ratty old couch, a table and a chair, and one-way mirror. On the other side of the mirror, Dr. Wright sat at a heavy wooden desk in a tastefully decorated office. Harry had forgotten that she was still a practicing therapist.

"John, do you remember when you signed a waiver releasing doctor-patient confidentiality for student observation?"

"My name isn't John." He stood beside a book case, his back to Harry, a his head bowed over a thick leather-bound volume. His voice was oddly familiar, but Harry paid little attention, spreading his note-taking supplies out on the sofa.

"You didn't answer my question." Professor Wright's voice was carefully neutral.

"Yes, I remember."

"One of my students is here observing today."

"Thank you for telling me."

John Doe was tall, probably a good head taller than Harry, and lean. He had wavy dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck. Harry noted that he had ridiculously proper posture and wondered if it was from good breeding or tension.

He seemed polite, if anything. Of course, there was no requirement for mentally ill people to be rude. Harry glanced at his watch and realized that Ken was probably getting off his shift right now. He swallowed hard and pushed aside the tantalizing image of losing himself in a tangle of golden-brown limbs, reveling in someone else's skin and forgetting all else.

"Is the student aware of my...condition?"

That voice jolted Harry back to the present. It was naggingly familiar, but -- no. It was deeper than the voice in Harry's memory, rougher as if the man smoked.

"You believe you have a condition?"

"If stupidity is a condition, yes." It was uttered with the same velvet-smooth utter contempt that Snape used. Harry actually jumped.

"You think you're stupid?"

"I was stupid enough, after all that training and studying, to get caught and end up here, wasn't I? And I'm clearly not smart enough to escape." John Doe closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. Long, graceful fingers lingered on the leather spine, the touch almost fond. Did he like books? Professor Wright had said he was intelligent.

"But we're both being obtuse. You brought the student here to observe me and see if I have any symptoms of whatever muggle condition with which you've diagnosed me."

Casual use of the word 'muggle.' Was the man really a wizard, or a mental patient who had picked the term up in his madness?

"A very accurate assessment, John."

Those broad shoulders tightened. "That is not my name." That good posture was tension, then.

Harry stared at the hideous grey scrubs and thought that color, which was less like grey and more like color had been bled out of the garment in a process of slow torture, was the antithesis of the perfect shade of grey.

The perfect shade of grey.

The memory rose, unbidden, to Harry's mind.

He'd come here at that stranger's behest and yet forgotten that part of the stranger's mad words - Harry's reward for obedience. He wanted, suddenly and inexplicably, to laugh.

"We've run your name through the government databases and no one of that name exists."

"It wouldn't exist in muggle records. It stopped existing in wizarding records when I was seventeen."

Harry didn't think he wanted the reward of that prophecy after all. He glanced at the door and wondered if it was safe to cast a silencing charm and to dampen the sound of disapparation. This man really was a wizard, and Hermione wasn't here yet. He reached for his wand.

"My name is Cedric Diggory, and I'd prefer not to suffer that parodying moniker of anonymity."

Harry's wand dropped from his nerveless hand.

John Doe turned around and gazed straight through the glass at Harry with a pair of eyes that were the perfect shade of grey.

Harry felt his world tilt on its axis.

No. Cedric was dead. He'd seen Cedric's disembodied soul.

But John Doe Crazy had Cedric's eyes and Cedric's face and - Harry's breath caught - Cedric's smile. He was Cedric - older, a little bit taller, even more handsome - and he was _alive_.

All three of them were distracted by a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Professor Wright asked, not taking her gaze off of her patient - Cedric.

"Miss Hermione Granger, cousin and legal guardian to the patient John Doe, her solicitor, and the patient's legal representative," the nurse said.

Harry leapt to his feet and crossed the room to the giant mirror.

"Come in," Professor Wright said.

The door swung open and Hermione, looking oddly demure in a simple blouse and skirt, stepped into the office, flanked by Obliviator Padma Patil and Anthony Goldstein from the Muggle Liaison Office.

Harry saw Hermione's jaw tighten and knew she was getting ready to pour forth her natural Granger genius - and then she looked at the patient and she faltered, eyes going wide with surprise. Anthony gaped openly but ceased doing so when a cool, collected Padma Patil elbowed him in the ribs. She crossed the room and set a legal document down on Professor Wright's desk.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Wright. My client, Ms. Granger, had just discovered that you have had custody of her cousin, Cedric Diggory--" she didn't even stumble over the name -- "for the past four years. Ms. Granger would like to thank you for your services, compensate you in the ordinary course that such service is rendered, and have her cousin released to her custody."

Dr. Wright blinked. "I don't understand. We've been looking to confirm John - Mr. Diggory's - identity the entire time he's been here and have found nothing."

Cedric, who had been standing in the corner, moved to stand beside Anthony, who looked a bit spooked. Harry watched, paralyzed with indecision and belief and disbelief. Was it really Cedric? Or a wizard who had polyjuiced him, stolen his identity? People said that everyone had a twin somewhere out there in the world. Maybe this was Cedric's. But Padma had called him Cedric. The ministry probably had some way of verifying people's identities, some way that wasn't susceptible to the machinations of the likes of Barty Crouch Jr.

Another elbow from Padma, and then Anthony was moving into action. "You must understand, Dr. Wright, that we would appreciate your utmost discretion in this matter."

Dr. Wright narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"I represent the interests of Mr. Diggory on behalf of her Majesty and MI5. Mr. Diggory went missing in action four years ago during a mission vital to national security and we had been unable to locate him." How Anthony managed to say that with a straight face, Harry would never know. A glance at Cedric told him that the other man - Cedric was a man now, no longer the boy from Harry's memory - was also amused.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. This wasn't happening, was it? If it wasn't real he wanted it to end now and spare him the pain of discovering the illusion.

"At this time Mr. Diggory's anonymity remains vital to national security and we wish to keep his whereabouts for the last four years completely confidential," Anthony said.

Dr. Wright slewed a glance at the man who had to be, couldn't be Cedric. "You do understand that Mr. Diggory is mentally ill."

"We have doctors who specialize in the sort of wartime trauma my client suffered," Anthony said smoothly. He set a stack of legal documents on the desk beside the one Padma had laid down.

"Trauma?" Hermione asked in a small voice.

"Mr. Diggory suffers from delusions," Dr. Wright said. Hermione crossed the room to stand before Cedric, and Harry knew that the confusion and anguish on her face was genuine.

"Cedric, what happened to you?"

"This?" Cedric lifted his head and turned to look at the mirror again. It was as if he knew Harry was there. He walked away from Hermione, closer to the mirror. If Harry hadn't known Cedric wasn't looking at his own reflection, Harry would have thought the other man could see him. Cedric tugged at the collar of his shirt, and Harry's heart missed a beat. Too-smooth pink flesh in a too-straight line across Cedric's throat, as if someone had tried to kill him.

Someone had succeeded.

"Cedric, I --"

"I can't talk about it. Unspeakable business, you know."

Hermione's face was pale. "Cedric, we - we have to get you home. Come with us, now."

Cedric smiled at his reflection, tracing the scar. "If you must know, it was the Forest of Dean. I was on assignment, guarding the Boy Who Lived. Snape caught me with a _sectumsempra_. Once he realized who I was, he healed me, but...after the Boy Who Lived, scars are attractive, aren't they?"

"As you can see, Mr. Diggory's delusions are such that he cannot function in daily living." Dr. Wright pressed her lips into a thin line.

"My client understands the ramifications and she and Mr. Goldstein will ensure that Mr. Diggory receives all the necessary care," Padma said. She handed Professor Wright a fountain pen.

"I think I should call my solicitor," Dr. Wright said.

Padma glanced at Anthony, who nodded.

"Of course. We are willing to wait." Padma and Anthony seated themselves, leaving Hermione hovering anxiously behind Cedric, who didn't seem to care.

Cedric reached out and put his hand on the mirror. Harry placed a shaking hand over Cedric's, and something in him ached when all he felt was cold glass. Even now, after he was looking at his lover's face, after all these years, they could not touch.

Harry stared at Cedric's face, studying each feature, the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the arc of high cheekbones - and tried to process the memories that assaulted him. He remembered leaning up to press a kiss to the tip of that nose, stroking that cheek, nibbling behind that jaw to wrench a moan from soft lips.

For the first time in four years, he dared to speak the name aloud. "Cedric."

Those grey eyes blinked, then narrowed, and Cedric leaned in, head cocked as if listening for something. Harry opened his mouth to say it again, louder, and then there was another knock at the door.

"Who is it?" Professor Wright snapped.

Hermione jumped, but Padma and Anthony remained calm. Anthony kept shooting Cedric incredulous looks when the others weren't paying attention.

Would it be so wrong, if Harry went in there, took Cedric's hand and apparated them somewhere far away?

The door swung open, and there he stood, the man in the pristine white suit.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Wright. I'm Brad Crawford, from Hamilton and Hamilton." He strode into the office, a briefcase in one hand.

Harry's brow furrowed. That man couldn't possibly be a real solicitor.

Hermione spun around to look at him, and Cedric turned a moment later, causing Harry to whimper softly.

"You speak like an American," Dr. Wright said, eyeing him suspiciously.

Padma and Anthony eyed the man with equal suspicion. Harry saw Hermione reaching for her wand.

"I'm from the firm's international division," Crawford said smoothly. He set the briefcase on the desk, opened it, and drew out another legal document. He went to set it down and smirked faintly when he saw the other documents already there. "I see I arrived at a rather - fortuitous time." He looked at Padma and Anthony, then straight at the mirror and through to Harry, and this time Harry knew the man was actually looking at him.

To Padma and Anthony, he said, "I represent the interests of this facility. What, may I ask, is the issue at present?"

"I'm here representing my client who seeks for her cousin's release to her custody," Padma said.

"I'm here representing the patient on behalf of the Ministry and Her Majesty." Anthony lifted his chin, almost defiantly. "We have come to secure your client's confidentiality regarding the patient."

"I see." Crawford slid his glasses higher up his nose with his index finger and turned to Professor Wright. "I am also here to secure the release of a patient." He set down the third legal document.

Professor Wright actually twitched. She scanned the newest document, and she went pale.

"Release of John Doe Irish?" she demanded.

"A request from the Republic of Ireland," Crawford said. "I assure you that the document is in order. All you need to do is sign and the transfer will be handled by their people."

Professor Wright went red with anger this time. "Release that patient? Are you mad? He's a psychopath and quite possibly a murderer --"

"If I were mad, I'm quite sure _I_ would be _your_ client," Crawford said. "While you're signing, I shall examine these documents. May I?" He gestured to the documents in question and cast a glance at Padma and Anthony. They both nodded.

Professor Wright cast Crawford a mutinous look but scooped up the pen Padma had offered and began working her way through the document, signing and initialing as she went.

Everyone was distracted. No one was looking. No one would notice if Harry popped over to the other side of the mirror, grabbed Cedric, and popped back again. He closed his eyes and groaned. He shouldn't. He knew better than to interfere when wizards were working with muggles. He opened his eyes again and found Crawford smirking at him. That man wasn't a muggle.

"It looks as if all of these are in order," he said, and set the documents down on the table. He turned to Hermione and bowed slightly, the way Japanese people did. "Congratulations upon finding your beloved lost cousin." And he loomed over Professor Wright.

"Come with me, Hermione, Cedric," Padma said. "We'll fetch Cedric's things from his room and then Hermione can sign when she returns." She stood up and headed for the door. Hermione moved to follow her. When Cedric didn't - for he had returned to staring at his reflection - Hermione reached out and, after a moment's hesitation, touched his hand.

"Cedric, come on. Let's go get your things."

He said, "Those aren't my things. They're all hospital issue."

"Come anyway," Hermione said, voice low. "You'll need clothes to hold you over until you can buy more."

Cedric glanced at Crawford, and Harry saw something like knowing pass between them before Cedric followed Hermione out of the room.

Harry scooped his supplies into his bag with shaking hands and stepped out of the observation room.

Two doors down, Hermione, Cedric, and Padma were stepping out of the office.

"I'll get your things, Cedric," Padma said. She hesitated, then offered a pained smile and said, "I'm glad you're not really dead."

"Cedric," Hermione began cautiously, "I know you were an Unspeakable, but I have to ask --"

"Harry."

Hermione whirled around and looked surprised, as if she had just remembered that he was the entire reason the wizard rescue squad was there.

"Cedric," Harry said, and then one of them moved and they were holding each other.

Cedric buried his face in Harry's hair. "Merlin, I've missed you."

Harry could only nod, face buried in Cedric's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

Cedric brushed his lips against Harry's ear and whispered, "I love you."

Harry pulled back and gazed into Cedric's eyes. "I--"

Cedric pressed a finger to Harry's lips. "Not until you're ready."

Harry nudged the finger aside. "I was ready eight years ago and never got to say it. _I love you_."

"I always wondered," Hermione said quietly. "You took his death so hard --"

Harry ignored her and dragged Cedric into a kiss.

Harry's world righted itself, and he was home, safe in Cedric's arms.

It was Cedric who pulled back this time to whisper, "Happy Valentine's day, by the way."

Harry curled his hand slyly around Cedric's wrist and said, "Come on. I have furry shackles waiting."

Hermione squeaked and turned a bright shade of red.

The office door opened, and Crawford stepped out, Anthony behind him. Crawford cast Harry another one of those damnable smirks, straightened his glasses, and walked away.

"Is it done?" Padma asked.

Anthony nodded.

"Good. Let me obliviate her, and then we can go." She turned to Cedric and Harry, noted their entwined fingers, and said, "You can go, if you like. Someone from the Unspeakable Office will probably want to speak to you in the next few days."

"Thank you," Cedric said, and smiled.

Padma blinked, surprised by the suddenness and sweetness of the expression, and then she smoothed her face back into its usual calm composure. "Just doing my duty."

Harry pulled Cedric closer to him and flicked his wand. "Let's go."

* * *

They lay on Harry's bed, tangled around the sheets and each other, reveling in the sheer joy of _being_ together.

"I had Valentine's plans today," Harry said.

Cedric went still beside him. "Oh?"

"Yeah. A parody of romance for a whole lot of mutual forgetting. I'd planned a really good date, too, the sort Hermione would approve of." Harry tilted his head back to rest against Cedric's shoulder. "Got ruined, though. By true love."

"I'm glad," Cedric said.

"It was ruined by his true love, is the thing," Harry said. He knew he was babbling, but hours later he was still amazed. "I thought I was going to have to spend six hours at that place and then come home and get utterly sauced. But then I saw you."

Cedric pressed a kiss to Harry's temple. "As I said, I'm glad."

"So am I." Harry rolled over and stole a kiss from Cedric's lips.

The shrill ringing of the telephone broke the silence. Harry jerked back, confused, and then remembered that he had a proper landline so he could use the internet. Who could possibly be calling that number at this time of night?

"Why is your telephone ringing?" Cedric asked, dropping distracting kisses down the line of Harry's throat.

Harry reached fumbled at the night stand for his wand. "I don't know. Give me a moment - I'll hex it --"

After two rings the message machine picked up.

"Hey Harry."

It was Ken.

"I - I'm sorry you're alone and I hope that you're not hearing this, that you're out having fun or passed out drunk or doing what you have to do to not remember whoever it is who stole your heart and broke your soul. I - I just wanted to say thank you. For being my friend. For today. Tonight. For everything."

Harry smiled faintly to himself. It was true; Ken had been a good friend. But he knew - and he knew Ken knew - what this really was.

"Ano...call if you ever need anything. Flowers. Drinks. A good game of soccer. Okay? Harry, I - I don't know how to thank you."

"You can thank him by leaving him alone. Do you know what time it is?" Aya's voice now, but softer than Harry had ever heard it, fond.

"Ano, Ran-kun, demo --"

"Thank you, Harry. Good night."

This was good-bye.

Then Cedric kissed him, and good-bye didn't matter anymore.


End file.
